


Count Again

by Atisenia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 2013 Fairy Tale Writing/Art Challenge, Gen, Post Reichenbach, Unreliable Narrator, based on The Ugly Duckling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-29
Updated: 2013-05-29
Packaged: 2017-12-13 07:19:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/821541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atisenia/pseuds/Atisenia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly has never imagined herself as a character in a detective story. Not really. But now her flat seems to have turned into some secret organization's headquarters and she may be helping chase the bad guys.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Count Again

**Author's Note:**

> Oh wow... this fic took much more time than I intended. I'm terribly, horribly late with it. Like a month late. But I was determined to finish it, even though the words didn't want to come out right and chaos took over. I hope it turned out ok in the end...
> 
> Written for the [2013 Fairy Tale Writing/Art Challenge](http://youlighttheskyfanfiction.tumblr.com/post/36829122226/2013-fairy-tale-writing-art-challenge-prompt-colours), the April prompt.
> 
> This time I didn't even try to read the English version of The Ugly Duckling. But it's only slightly inspired by the fairytale, so I guess it won't be a problem.
> 
> What _can_ be a problem is that I'm not a native speaker and this fic was pretty challenging for me to write. So probably mistakes. Sorry about that. You can always let me know.
> 
> Mostly gen, but think what you want.;)

When she was younger, Molly liked reading detective stories. There was that special thrill when she figured something out before the main character did and she could always count on a dead body or two.

She never thought she’d become a character in one of them. Living in a detective story was often hell but she wouldn’t have it any other way.

Except, maybe she would exchange the constant fear for something more peaceful, Molly thought, taking the pepper spray out of her bag. She left the taser Greg had given her in another bag and it was another proof of just how terrible her timing always was.

There were no obvious signs of forced entry but she knew someone was inside her flat. All the traps she had set warned her that someone opened the door and was now sitting in her living room.

She gripped the door handle and pushed as quietly as she could. The door was unlocked. Of course it was. Molly gripped the spray more tightly and entered the flat on tiptoes.

She didn’t manage to go far.

Someone grabbed her from behind even before she could close the door. She tried to free herself, trashing and kicking and biting — unsuccessfully — at the hand that covered her mouth. It very nearly gave her an advantage but the intruder’s grip was vicious and she had no chance of using the spray.

“It’s me,” she heard whispered into her ear just when she started to feel desperate. Molly’s heart skipped a bit and then started slowing down. Her entire body immediately relaxed with relief.

He touched the tin and said, “you’re getting better at this.”

Then he finally let go of her and Molly spun on her heel and hit him in the shoulder. With the spray tin.

“Don’t- don’t do that again!” she snapped with wild gesticulation. He eyed the tin.

“Easy with that,” he said and Molly handed him the spray. “Why didn’t you just enter the flat? I thought you were an intruder.”

“Yeah, well, I knew someone’s in here,” Molly said, catching her breath. “I’m out of tea, so… coffee?”

“It’s fine, Molly,” he said. “Coffee’s fine.”

She nodded sharply while he checked the staircase and then finally closed the door.

“You should have told me you’d come visit,” Molly said and went to put the kettle on. She heard Toby jump off the sofa and come to greet her. She scratched him behind the ears and filled his bowl with fresh water.

“You gave me the key,” the man said as he entered the kitchen. Toby immediately focused his attention on their guest.

“Yeah, but—“ she started and didn’t know what else to say. _You nearly gave me a heart attack_. _You can’t just come into other people’s flats. I could have called the police._ “I could have hurt you,” was what she said in the end.

He smirked at her from where he crouched petting her cat.

“Not yet,” he said and Molly decided to take it as a compliment.

The kettle boiled and she poured water into the mugs, adding milk to both and sugar to hers.

“Thanks,” he said when she handed him the mug and he followed her back into the living room. They sat beside each other on the sofa and he just absently tapped his fingers on the mug, completely ignoring Toby’s attempts to get his attention. Molly knew what was coming. “Any news?” he asked.

She was always prepared to answer that question.

“There was one on the other side of London but this is not him,” she said.

He tensed and gritted his teeth, and Molly knew he didn’t quite believe her.

“Are you sure?” he asked. “Because it’s important—“

“I’m sure,” Molly said.

“Your sources could be wrong,” he insisted. “I don’t think you realize how much depends on this—“

“I know!” Molly said, irritated. “And they’re not wrong, ok? They don’t even know what they’re looking for.”

He wanted to believe her, Molly could tell, but it would take much more to convince him. He’d have to trust her and she couldn’t blame him for not being completely okay with this. It was difficult to trust someone so caught up in this grand net of lies.

“Do you?” he asked and Molly just pursed her lips. They sat in silence for a while, contemplating their coffees. “He doesn’t know, does he?” he asked quietly.

“No,” Molly said, all her defensiveness leaving her when she heard that tone. “No, he doesn’t,” she added gently.

“You can’t tell him.”

“I know.”

“But you really can’t.”

“I _know_!” Molly snapped at him and felt guilty immediately afterwards. “Do you really think I could endanger everyone’s life like this?” she asked.

He still didn’t seem convinced and she found herself on the receiving end of his assessing gaze. It still made her feel unsettled, too much like all those wary glances at school and then even her family—

“Molly?” he began, a little uncertain, and his voice helped ground her again. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, fine, I-I’m fine,” she said, pushing the bad memories out of her mind. It was over now— Well, it was better at least.

He nodded and smiled that smile that was already so familiar. And then he started assessing her again.

“Would you mind if I slept here tonight, possibly a couple of days?” he asked. “I think I managed to deceive Mycroft’s surveillance system and convince him I’m out of the city. He’s really annoying when he’s playing with his cameras.”

Molly didn’t mean to laugh but the indignant note in his voice made her giggle uncontrollably.

“What?” he asked, genuinely confused.

“Nothing,” she said when she managed to recover sufficiently. “Just... avoiding Mycroft’s cameras seems like a big deal.”

“Not really. I know all the blind spots,” he said and she laughed again.

“I’m gonna fetch you some blankets,” Molly said and finished her coffee before going to her room. When she came back, he already had another task for her.

 

~*~

 

She lay awake in her bed trying to ignore the muffled sounds coming from the living room. She was tempted to just go in there and help him, but she knew he wouldn’t appreciate it. The first time Molly did try to wake him, she ended up with a black eye, a sore throat and a brisk order to stay away.

She didn’t quite listen. Not after the first time anyway. She got some more bruises for that and, finally, she stopped trying. Nothing that worked for her seemed to work for him as well.

Molly still remembered how her dad used to soothe her after a long day at school — after she came back home with another post-it note on her back, her hair a bit shorter or scattered doll pieces in her rucksack. She couldn’t sleep after those days and if she did, it was never peaceful. The deformed dolls were often chasing her like a bunch of plastic zombies.

Her father just held her until she fell asleep again and he didn’t mind her frantic tossing or her mother’s displeased muttering.

“Leave her,” her mother used to say. “It’s a cruel world and she needs to get used to this if she refuses to act like a normal girl.”

Molly sighed. She couldn’t go in there and hold the scared man on her sofa. He was too strong for her to contain and she didn’t want him to feel guilty if she ended up hurt again. There wasn’t much she could do.

She remembered how her dad used to sing to her. Molly loved his soft melodies — their familiar and comforting rhythm could sometimes fight off the menacing shadows. She could use one of them now, to lull her to sleep.

Or she could use them on him as well.

She sat upright on her bed and ignored the indignant protests of her cat. She fumbled with her collection of classical music. It would be comforting to him, it should be, it _had to_ be, after all this time...

She ran into the living room and almost tripped on her own pink pyjama bottoms in the process. She didn’t have the music equipment and her DVD acted up after that one time she tried to watch _Glee_ with a consulting criminal (and wasn’t that an achievement on her part? Forcing a criminal mastermind to watch a teenage musical was worth a broken DVD) but her laptop would do just fine.

Molly chose Chopin’s music because she always found it soothing and there were violin covers on her disc. She pressed play and attuned her (well, her _sister’s_ ; left behind, forgotten) speakers so that the music would be heard but not too loudly. Then she looked at the sofa.

He visibly relaxed. The tense lines of his face softened a fraction with the first notes of Nocturne No.20. As the music continued, he stopped tossing altogether and finally the only movement on his part was the gentle breathing and the mute opening and closing of his mouth — a silent humming —until it uttered a familiar name and made Molly’s heart clench.

They needed to end that stupid farce as quickly as possible, so that everything could get back to normal — their kind of normal, anyway — and she could—

She should have considered music _ages_ ago. It was so simple she didn’t understand how it could possibly escape her.

Molly made sure her laptop wouldn’t accidentally shut itself down and set the disc to replay endlessly, if needed. Then she went to bed, leaving the door slightly open behind her. Toby looked at her curiously from where he gravitated onto her pillow, derisively waved his tale and went back to sleep.

At least he would have if Molly let him appropriate the pillow, which she didn’t. He looked at her, affronted, but as soon as she settled in, he curled near her chest and waved his tale once more to make his point clear.

Soon, Molly fell asleep to the muffled sound of classical music next door and gentle purring right beside her.

 

~*~

 

When she woke up, the flat was silent.

Well, not _exactly_ , but there was no music playing in the background and Toby was no longer beside her. She went to check if her stupid cat made her laptop fall _again_ , but it was where she left it, just with its lid shut. She blinked at it and checked the watch on the wall.

“Morning!” she heard from behind her and she jumped. “Coffee?” he asked, already handing her a mug. Molly looked at him, uncertain.

“Thanks,” she said and took a sip. The coffee was perfect.

“Do you want some eggs?” he asked. “I would go and buy some bacon but I still don’t want Mycroft to know I’m here.”

Molly eyed him carefully and recognized it for what it was: a _thank you_ and a _please can we not talk about it_. She nodded and took another sip of her perfect coffee.

“Eggs will be great,” she said and he smiled.

Toby meowed in agreement and followed the man to the kitchen, demanding attention.

“Traitor,” Molly muttered and smiled.

 

~*~

 

“This is my youngest daughter, Molly” her mother said with a fake smile plastered to her face. “She’s a _doctor_. And this is Ian, Brad’s cousin.”

Brad’s as in her sister’s fiancé’s... no, _husband’s_. It was husband now. She was attending their wedding reception after all. She was drinking their champagne.

Molly smiled politely and shook the man’s hand. Her mother seemed to start glowing.

“Ian’s a lawyer, you see,” she said, very pleased with herself and Molly’s stomach dropped.

Oh, God, not again!

“Yes, well, I am actually a—“ she started but her mother intercepted her.

“She works in London, that’s what she wants to say, isn’t it, darling?” The woman positively glared at her.

“Yes. Yes, I do, but I’m—“

“She works at St. Bart’s Hospital, Ian,” her mother interrupted her again. “Maybe you know it.”

“I do, actually,” Ian spoke for the first time since the introduction. “I think we had a minor case there.” He looked at Molly, deep in thought. “And wasn’t that the place this fake detective died?”

“He’s not a fake,” Molly muttered into her glass of champagne.

“Pardon?”

“Yes, that’s the place,” she said louder and tried to sound confident. She couldn’t waver, she needed to keep up the pretence. She took a deep breath and looked Ian in the eyes. “As a matter of fact, I performed a pos—“

“Molly, dear,” her mother said and her glare gained a dangerous edge. Molly was quite immune to it by now though. “You should dance with Ian here. You’ve been sitting all by yourself instead of celebrating your sister’s wedding. Come on, off you go!”

She gave Molly a gentle but firm push and so Molly had no choice but to comply. She wasn’t going to follow her mother’s plan though. Even if Ian didn’t mind being a part of this silly matchmaking, she certainly did. A doctor and a lawyer, what a perfect solution to her mother’s problems! What a perfect way to pretend that her daughter wasn’t, in fact, the black sheep in the family. But this, _this_ wasn’t her — she was not a surgeon which would be an _acceptable_ occupation.

She took the offered hand and let Ian pull her a little bit closer, but not _too much_ , and then let him lead. She was an awkward dancer at best and heels tended to complicate things.

“So, Molly,” Ian started, “we’re both in for helping people then.”

She looked at him, surprised, and then smiled because that was a _perfect_ opening.

“Well, you can say that,” she admitted, feigning thoughtfulness. “Although there’s not much you can do for dead people, I suppose.” It was his turn to be surprised. He gaped at her, confused. “Oh, didn’t I mention? I work in the morgue.”

“You— you what?” he asked, forgetting they were supposed to dance. Her occupation often made people uncomfortable.

“There’s something poetic about cutting people open just to find out what’s wrong with them and then stitch them back. Almost as if you could _fix_ them. Dead people can’t lie, you know, so I always find out the truth,” she said and fixed Ian with a meaningful look. He visibly swallowed and resumed their dance with a forced cautiousness. When the song ended, he made a hurried escape.

Molly smirked. There were definitely some advantages of knowing Sherlock Holmes. One of them was his great ability to intimidate people or freak them out. All Molly had to do was watch and learn. And she was good at watching. In fact, she was reasonably certain she heard him talking about the poetry of dead bodies more than once.

She went to fetch herself another glass of champagne but was intercepted by her mother. The woman looked as if she could barely contain her fury and was doing so only because they were surrounded by people.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she hissed and grabbed Molly’s arm until it hurt. “What did you say to him?”

“Only the truth,” Molly said, trying to get away from her mother’s grip, but it only tightened. She winced.

“Must you always?” her mother asked with a deep sigh. Molly just pursed her lips together. “You and your fascination with dead things. I’ve always thought nothing good could come out of this.”

“Yes, Mum, I _know_ you did.” They all did, except for her father, but he was gone now, dead and buried like so many people that came to her morgue, like a certain detective could have been but _wasn’t_ and it might be a bit because of what she could do and who she was.

She finally snatched her arm free and got to the table, followed by her mother’s pained sigh. She hesitated and went for a glass of martini.

“Hey, sis,” a cheerful, tipsy voice nearly made her jump and spill the alcohol.

“Matt!” she exclaimed, looking pointedly at her brother. Married with one child, the second on its way, judging by the size of Julie’s belly. A respected university professor. Her mother was so very pleased.

“Sorry,” he said and beamed at her. “You look quite presentable today.”

“Thanks,” she muttered and took a sip of her martini.

“So, what’s new? You still playing with your dead bodies?

“It’s not a _game,_ Matt. It’s my _job_!” she said, irritated.

“Really, Mols, it can’t be healthy.”

“Well, I find it really peaceful and quiet,” she said. “Dead people don’t tell me how to live my life.” He looked hurt for a moment and Molly felt a bit guilty. “I— I wasn’t—“

“We all just worry about you,” Matt said. “I don’t know why you can’t see that.”

He walked away and she drank her martini in one go.

 

~*~

 

Molly spent the rest of the reception trying to hide from her family and failing. She tried to ignore them but she couldn’t quite manage that when every word hurt her more than some of the things Sherlock had said to her. She knew he wasn’t doing it on purpose, not always anyway, and he actually respected what she did for a living, even if that respect didn’t extend to her personally.

What _they_ said hurt more because they were her _family._ They were supposed to accept her and support her.

The only bright moment of the whole reception was when her wonderful niece took her by the hand and marched her out to a staircase outside the banquet room and then _demanded_ to see some photos of Toby. She then told Molly about a cat that lived in her neighbourhood. Alice was positively sure he was a ghost.

Molly laughed at that and told her niece that a long time ago people thought cats were sacred and was rewarded with a wide-eyed, fascinated look.

It didn’t last long though. Julie came to fetch her daughter and shot Molly a furious look when Alice mentioned the ghost cat. As if Molly was to blame for all things dead.

She escaped without saying goodbye when everyone was already too drunk or self-absorbed to either notice or care. She went upstairs to her guest room that she had to share with Aunt Ruth because no one else would endure the slightly hysteric middle-aged hypochondriac, but it was always okay to leave her with Molly.

She took a shower, changed into her pink pyjamas and went to bed. She couldn’t sleep though. She pretended to be asleep when her aunt finally got to the room, positively drunk, and then just proceeded to mull over the details of the most recent plan.

They were so close to the end, to maybe finally discover the name of the second in command and maybe then it would all stop being so darn difficult.

 

~*~

 

She took the first train home. (And wasn’t that funny that she felt more at home in her pathetic little flat than with her family?) She was exhausted and that’s probably why she didn’t notice that someone was inside her flat _again_ until she was already standing in her living room. She just looked at him and sighed.

“Hello, Doctor Hooper,” he said, watching Toby with cautious reserve.

“Don’t,” she said, more forcefully than she intended and he looked at her, surprised. “It’s Molly. Please,” she said tiredly and went to leave the overnight bag in her room.

“But—“

“Just don’t,” she said, coming back to the living room.

He watched her for a moment but eventually nodded.

“I don’t think your cat’s overly enthusiastic about my visit,” he said.

Molly looked at Toby and called him. He meowed and hesitated just for a while before he went to welcome her home.

“He’s only mad at me for leaving him alone for two days,” she explained, collecting him into her arms. He miraculously stayed still for once. “He’s acting out. I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s some broken glass or other destroyed things in unexpected places, so be careful where you stand.”

“Duly noted, Doc— Molly,” he rectified as she glared at him. It wasn’t a good day for guests.

She ruffled Toby’s fur and he meowed at her, indignant. She wasn’t able to keep him in her arms after that. Just as well because she needed to feed him and of _course_ he would drag his food bowl through the living room and then turn it over.

She put the kettle on for some coffee. She needed it and if he wanted tea instead, he could have made himself one since he had already invited himself to her flat.

When the kettle boiled, Toby was already fed and content with life now that she was there to worship him. She smiled tiredly at his purring and scratched him behind the ears. Worship it was, then.

She added milk and sugar to her coffee and nothing at all to his, then carried them to the living room, where he sat on her sofa.

“I don’t have much that could serve as breakfast right now,” she said, putting the mugs on the coffee table. “But I may find some biscuits to go with the coffee,” she offered, not bothering to hide her yawn.

“I’m not really hungry,” he said so she brought the biscuits hidden in her bedroom drawer for emergencies that involved rather late night film marathons than empty fridge and unexpected guests.

She sat on the sofa beside him and waited. After a while, Toby settled on her lap. There was still only silence in the room and finally, she had enough.

“Why are you here?” she asked.

He looked at her from behind his coffee.

“Can’t I just come and visit you without a reason?” he asked.

Molly shrugged.

“You can, but you never do,” she said, matter-of-factly. “So. Do you need my help with the investigation?

“That’s not—“

“Well, do you?” she asked, a bit too sharply. She felt guilty right away. “I— I’m sorry. It’s just... my mum, she—“ And how would she even finish that sentence? _My mother doesn’t love me as the rest of her_ _children_ sounded pathetic and not exactly accurate. And _my mother can’t accept my life choices_... well, no.

So she just blinked and hoped he’d understand.

He did. She saw the comprehension showing on his face. He even made an awkward move to place a comforting hand on her arm but aborted the motion when she glared at him.

“Ah, family,” he said instead and she felt guilty again at his bland tone. It could have been worse. So much worse. They could have blabbed all of her secrets to a criminal mastermind. Not that they would matter to him. They didn’t last time she checked. And she could have someone constantly cheating on her or— or Karen could be an alcoholic and already on her way to destroy her new marriage...

Instead, she got some hurtful words, nothing more.

( _Honestly, child, if I haven’t delivered you myself, and, well, you do look like your father, I would have doubted you were even mine. Where do you get your silly ideas from? Not from your father, I’m sure, and certainly not from me. Oh, look! That’s Karen’s psychology degree. Now, that’s what a proper doctor should have. Don’t you think it’s lovely?_ No, no, no, stop!)

“Molly?” he asked and she jumped, startling Toby. He huffed at her.

“I’m — I-I am so _sorry_. I didn’t mean— Well, I did. But. What I want to say is that— Well, just... Don’t hold it against me, alright?”

“Of course,” he responded earnestly and she sighed with relief.

“So,” she started. “What have you got for me?”

 

~*~

 

Molly was in the bathroom, humming a well-known tune while applying concealer to her face. She sighed with defeat when it didn’t quite manage to cover the bags under her eyes, only made them more visible. She promptly washed it off and told herself not to bother next time (though she probably would anyway).

When she emerged into the living room, she shrieked at the sight of a dark figure bleeding on her carpet.

“You can’t keep doing that!” she accused in a high, squeaky voice and considered changing the locks.

“Molly,” he said and his voice was raw, his face haunted.

It wasn’t the first time he turned up injured in her flat and she knew (hoped, at least) the wound wasn’t as bad as it looked like, but she still gaped at the stain on her carpet, transfixed. Then she looked up at him. He was clutching his right arm, a scarf wrapped messily around the wound. He swayed a bit and that was enough to make her act.

“To the bath with you,” she said and he had the gall to smirk. “I-I mean...” she started, turning pink from embarrassment and then from irritation. “No, you know what? Just get in the bloody bath!” she said and, for a moment he looked surprised.

“It’s not bloody... yet,” he tried joking but it was rather pathetic so he had to be in a lot of pain.

“Right.”

Molly took him by his good arm and helped him get into the bath, then she gave him something for the pain. He kept quiet when she proceeded to take off his clothes, even though her hands were shaking just a bit and her ears were furiously pink. He just looked absent, distant, _sad_.

“You know, it can’t be that long till it’s all over,” she said, keeping her moves professional, looking for less obvious wounds than the one on his arm.

He looked at her and blinked but said nothing.

Molly swallowed and nodded to herself, her fingers more urgent now. She didn’t ask how he got injured. She was fairly sure he wouldn’t tell her. He was obviously in shock, God only knew how much blood he’d already lost. Though the scarf tied around his arm probably kept it from getting even worse.

It was a deep cut, the one on his arm. Knife, sharp, with wide blade. He must have received the cut from above and it was a weird angle, so they must have moved a lot.

“You should have left the knife in place, you know,” she said, cleaning the wound. She hadn’t find any other life-threatening injuries. “You wouldn’t have bled so much.

He looked at her, vaguely surprised, and she just pursed her lips, reaching for the stitches in the first aid kit. She was more prepared to deal with him this time than when he had first appeared hurt on her doorstep.

“It was poisoned,” he said. “The knife,” he explained when she just looked at him blankly. And then her eyes widened. “I already took care of it but it wouldn’t be wise to expose myself to the source of the poisoning, won’t you agree?”

She did.

“Hold still,” she told him and began sewing him up.

“Anyway, a knife sticking from one’s arm attracts too much attention,” he said, as if he didn’t hear her. But he did remain still, so she didn’t mind.

“And blood doesn’t?” He just glared at her but it lacked heat. She sighed. “You need to shower and then I’ll bandage it.”

“And how will I do that with an injured arm?” he asked.

Molly hesitated.

“I-I was going to— to suggest that... Obviously, you don’t have to, but it would— You’d feel better and—“

“Fine,” he said and for a moment she thought the look in his eyes was almost fond. Must be the blood loss.

“Okay,” she said, applying a gauze to the wound and putting his left hand over it to hold it still. “I’ll be right back. Don’t— Don’t pass out while I’m gone.”

She ran to her bedroom and took a deep breath. It wasn’t exactly a good idea to leave him alone in this state but she needed a moment. It wasn’t that she still had a crush on him but he looked so vulnerable and she couldn’t help thinking that she wasn’t supposed to see him like that.

She quickly changed into shorts and T-shirt and grabbed the spare clothes she had for him. When she came back into the bathroom, he was playing with the stitches.

“I should have known you’d need some direct orders to _leave it alone_ ,” she said.

“These are good stitches,” he commented and she looked at him, confused. He really must be in shock.

“I have a lot of practice, you know,” she said and he smirked. “Ok, let’s get you cleaned,” she added and got into the bath without hesitation. Soon, she was putting shampoo into his hair but she didn’t enjoy it, like she feared she would, because he was acting like a whiny princess.

“If you ever decide to have children, and really, you should hurry if you do — careful there! — don’t ever wash their hair — oh, honestly! — you’d make it all fall off —ouch!”

“You know,” she said, “if I were you, I wouldn’t say that to the person that’s washing your hair at the moment. It can all fall of, you know.”

He sulked.

She took the chance to re-examine him for internal injuries but everything still seemed in order. It took some effort on her part but, finally, he was clean. She got out of the bath and handed him a towel.

“You can change into the clothes I got you,” she said, bandaging his arm. He looked at her pointedly, so she dried his hair with a towel, trying not to roll her eyes too much. “I’m going to call in sick and then we’ll gonna feed you.”

He scowled at her, probably already plotting how to escape her flat, now that he was all patched up again.

“You’re not going anywhere until I say otherwise,” she told him and he just looked at her. “I’m serious. You’ve lost quite a lot of blood, so what’s going to happen now is you’re gonna eat and you’re gonna sleep. Then we’ll see.

She fled before he could manage to convince her otherwise. Toby looked at her curiously from where he lay on the shelf, then jumped to the floor and stretched, not in the least concerned about anything at all. Lucky sod.

Molly called the morgue and sent a couple of texts and then changed again into something comfortable and dry. She just started making spaghetti when he emerged from the bathroom, wearing a T-shirt and pyjama bottoms.

“Why would you give me these to wear?” he asked, apparently still in his sulky mood. “You have one of my shirts in your wardrobe, do you not?”

He stared at Toby, Toby stared back.

“As I said, you’re not going anywhere,” she said, chopping tomatoes. “I hope you like garlic.”

He scowled and sprawled on the sofa like Toby used to do. Her cat clearly didn’t like it but he just stared pointedly. The man snorted and stared back.

 

~*~

 

She woke up from the nightmare covered in sweat. It was intense, she hadn’t have one like this in _years_ and she wasn’t exactly sure what triggered it.

The doorbell rang and Molly groaned into the pillow with a sudden suspicion of what had woken her. This wasn’t fair though. It was her day off and she was hoping to spend it alone and in peace. Maybe it was something unimportant, like a postman. Or people trying to make some survey. Or a bloody gas installation control.

No such luck.

Her mobile rang and she answered it without thinking, if only to silence it.

“Yes?” she said. Toby’s ears perked.

“Molly, darling,” she heard her mother’s voice and winced. Good she didn’t see that. “I’m a patient woman, but I’d rather not stand here outside all day. Let me in, would you?”

Molly blinked at Toby and then frowned with confusion before finally understanding. She hung up and frantically searched for her slippers — incriminatingly pink with cat eyes, ears and whiskers — and ran to open the door.

Her mother stood in the doorway, impeccable as always. She emitted that soft charm Karen also had that Molly used to envy. So much.

“Come on, Molly, you’re still in pyjamas?” her mother asked, coming in and instantly aiming for the living room sofa.

Molly closed the door and took a deep breath.

“It’s only eight in the morning,” she said stifling a yawn that threatened to escape her. “On my day off,” she added. “But how did you know I’d be here?”

“Oh, I have my sources,” the woman said and wasn’t that just a tiny bit terrifying? Molly’s mother stared at her. “Well, don’t just stand there! Come and sit!” Molly obliged. “I see you have a new carpet.”

“Yeah, well.” Molly shrugged. “I needed a change.”

And she was definitely _not_ telling her mother why.

“Pity,” was what she heard in return. “I liked the other one better.” Her mother’s gaze shifted to her. “Molly, I told you pink wasn’t your best colour. You really shouldn’t wear it.”

Molly looked down at herself and realized that yes, she was wearing rather a lot of pink. She really wasn’t in the mood to have this conversation _again_ , though.

“I’m in pyjamas. It’s not like anyone’s going to actually _see_ me,” she chose to answer.

“Well, I see you quite well,” her mother said and Molly hurried to change the subject, because, please, could they _not_ talk about this?

“Why are you here, Mum?” she asked.

“It’s your birthday, isn’t it?” her mother said, slightly offended. “I thought I’d surprise you—“

She stopped talking and Molly looked confused for a moment until she heard the key working the lock open and froze. No, not now, _please_ , not now.

Her mother looked at her briefly and then kept her gaze fixed firmly at the front door. Oh, God, this was _bad_.

The door opened and Molly let out a shaky breath. Why, why, _why_ couldn’t he just _knock_ like a normal person?

“Oh, hello,” he said, looking at the sofa with a frown. “I didn’t realize you’d be home,” he said. _With company_ seemed to be heavily implied.

Molly gritted her teeth, composed herself and hurried to make introductions.

“Ah, Mum, this is...” She stopped, afraid to continue. She looked at the man who had finally come closer. How was she supposed to explain this without giving it all away? And without panicking. Panic attacks were worse than nightmares...

“Gregory Lestrade,” he said, “a close friend”. He gracefully shook her mother’s hand and Molly glared at him because, _honestly_ , what was he even— “Nice to meet you, Mrs Hooper.”

“Please, call me Emma,” her mother said with that glow in her eye that threatened to send Molly into hysterics. “You look familiar. Do I know you?”

Oh, God. No. No, no, no, no...

“I would remember Molly’s mother,” he said solemnly and was it possible for her to just _die_?

Her mother, at least, seemed satisfied with that answer and sat back on the sofa. “Did I spoil the surprise?” she asked, looking at Molly when he sat in a chair.

“W-what?” Molly said, still wondering about her life choices.

Her mother rolled her eyes.

“Well, your _boyfriend_ obviously wanted to surprise you on your birthday. And then I came and spoilt it all.”

Molly blushed furiously while he mouthed “birthday” at her and she shrugged in a rather pathetic way.

“ _Greg_ here,” she started, “is not my boyfriend, Mum.”

“Well, yet,” he said and she just gaped. What the hell?

“No, no, no, no! I mean— Not that I wouldn’t— Because I—“ No, but _really_ , could she just die now? “I mean,” she continued carefully, determined to ignore her mother’s knowing smile. “Greg’s married. And not—“ she added hurriedly, “not to me. Obviously.”

“I’m divorced, actually,” he said and Molly scowled at him. Why was he determined to make it so difficult for her?

“I’ll leave you two, then,” her mother said, trying but failing to contain her glee. “I’ll call you,” she added and left before Molly could protest, leaving a small gift on her coffee table.

Molly hid her face in her hands.

“Why would you tell her all of this?” she asked, on the edge of a nervous breakdown.

“I thought it was easier to imply we’re together than explain the real reason I have your key,” he calmly explained.

“Or you could have just knocked,” she said, exasperated.

“She left though, didn’t she?” he asked, suddenly uncertain.

“Yes. Yes, she did.” She sighed. “Well, I suppose you should just tell me what you came here to tell me.”

“Molly—“

“No, it’s fine, really. I-I... I’ll just make us coffee.”

She stood up, suddenly aware of her silly attire. She disappeared in the kitchen and put the kettle on. Then she leant on the counter and took a deep breath.

“Molly?” he asked, apparently coming after her.

“I’m fine, I— Just give me a minute.”

He nodded and went back into the living room. She took a few deep breaths and then filled both mugs with strong coffee and decided she needed it black so she didn’t bother with milk.

When she went back to the living room, he was sitting on the sofa, trying to get away from Toby and his claws.

“So,” she started in the most casually neutral tone she could manage, “what have you got for me? Is the, uh, investigation over?”

He looked at her, dubious. The look didn’t suit him.

“Molly, I—“

“No,” she interrupted before he could go any further with that. “It’s fine. What have you got for me?”

He looked at her some more.

“Is it really your birthday?” he asked.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake!” she said, exasperated. “Yes, it is. I’ll get over it. I already have. See? Done. Now. Could we _please_ discuss what you’re here to discuss?”

He smiled at her. Honestly, sometimes she wondered about her sanity. Or everyone else’s.

“Alright,” he said. “But only if we celebrate later.” She opened her mouth to protest but he didn’t let her. “It’s your birthday, isn’t it? And I imposed myself on you. It’s the least I can do.”

She wanted to. Oh, yes, she did. But...

“Wouldn’t it be dangerous?”

“Not really. But we can always stay in the flat and order something. My treat.”

Her lips twitched just a bit.

“What about the investigation?”

“I _did_ say later, didn’t I?” he said and smiled again. Right.

“B-but...” she protested some more. “I-I don’t even know when _your_ birthday is.”

“That’s irrelevant. For now at least.”

He looked at her a little bit too long, a little bit too hopeful, and she gave in. She figured he needed some time off as much as she did. Maybe more.

“Okay,” she sighed. “Just— just let me change...”

She bolted for her room, suddenly self-conscious. She was still wearing that pink pyjamas and she hadn’t even combed her hair yet.

When she finally emerged back from her room in a presentable state, he was still sitting on the sofa, glaring at Toby and sporting battle wounds.

She smiled.

 

~*~

 

Molly was getting ready for bed when he came. It was beginning to worry her that she no longer paid any attention to the door opening. Someday, it might be the death of her. Quite literally.

“What do you want?” she asked with a sigh, resigning herself to a sleepless night. She might as well change back from her pyjamas. At least her mother wasn’t there this time.

“His name is Moran,” he exclaimed, gesticulating a little bit too much for her comfort.

“Sit down,” she told him. “Whose name?”

He didn’t sit down. He just continued pacing back and forth and mumbling to himself. His eyelids twitched.

“...him, I finally found him,” she heard and there was something off about his voice. “How did he manage to elude me for all this time? Oh, he’s clever. Or maybe just lucky. He’s no—“

“Sherlock!” she said forcefully, already regretting saying the name out loud, for even _thinking_ it at all. What if the neighbours heard? What if there were people listening? What if—

He didn’t seem to notice. In fact, he seemed to only just realize she was there. He blinked at her.

“Molly.” He seemed lost and she knew, she just _knew_ she wasn’t the one he was talking to.

And then he stopped for a moment and she saw him well in the light.

“Are you high?” she asked quietly. Because if he was, she wouldn’t know how to handle that.

He growled and pushed his sleeves up and she saw five nicotine patches there. He was breathing heavily and she could see the agitated beating of his heart reflected on his wrist. And he was pale, more than usual.

Right.

“I’d ask you to take them off but you’d probably ignore me,” she said, sitting on the sofa where Toby was already glaring at their guest. She didn’t get an answer but then, she didn’t really expect one. He probably wasn’t going to sit down either. “So, who’s Moran?”

He looked at her with a new focus.

“Moriarty’s second in command,” he told her, far from his usual controlled self. It must be the nicotine as well as the news. “I found him. I finally found him, Molly! I don’t know where he is yet, not exactly, but I have his name and his face and I _do_ know he’s in London, chasing the person that’s been destroying Moriarty’s web and— I need to go, I need to _find_ him.”

He made a move towards the door as if he really thought it was a good idea to go out there in his state and collapse on some criminal’s doorstep. Molly considered her options.

“Wait!” she called after him but of _course_ he wouldn’t listen. Alright then. “If you go now, I’ll tell John,” she said and he froze. Then he turned to face her.

“You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, I _would_ ,” she said firmly and approached him. “You are in no fit state to go _anywhere_ , especially not to chase a dangerous criminal who might kill us all. If you go and accidentally reveal yourself to him—“

“I wouldn’t,” he pouted.

“—then the least I can do is tell John to prepare himself.”

That seemed to catch his attention.

“You think he’d kill John?” he asked quietly.

“I-I don’t know,” Molly said, all at once not so sure about this tactic. But he needed to eat and he needed to sleep _and_ he needed to get rid of his apparent nicotine poisoning before he could do anything at all. “Just... just stay here tonight, ok? I mean, you... you really can cause more damage than good that way. I mean, not by staying. By _going_. And... what if you fainted during the fight or something?”

He smirked. It was a thousand times better than his lost look.

“That would be... inconvenient,” he conceded. “You wouldn’t tell him though, would you?”

“I would.”

And she really, really _would_. He had to see that in her eyes, because he nodded sharply with a shadow of a smile.

“You play a dangerous game, Doctor Hooper,” he said, finally stepping back into her flat and peeling off three of his patches. Two stayed but it was better than she expected anyway. “Are you aware of that?”

“You got me into this,” she said and relaxed into the sofa. Toby hid in her bedroom, clearly avoiding the man who stood in the middle of her living room and looked at her with narrow, searching eyes.

“No,” he said at last, somewhat smugly. “No, I think you involved yourself all on your own.”

He went to dispose of the patches and left her alone, confused.

 

~*~

 

When Molly thought about secret conspiratorial meetings, the image inside her head was that of dark, abandoned alleys and maybe warehouses, not cafes. And yet she was currently sitting in this cosy little place, sipping latte through a straw. Apparently her understanding of detective stories was different from reality and she really needed to get used to that.

She was thinking about her father introducing her to Bond films when a man she’d never seen before sat at her table. She blinked at him and then at the empty seats the cafe still had to offer.

“E-excuse me,” she said, trying to sound firm and failing. “This seat is taken.”

“Don’t think so, love,” he said and when she was about to protest — or change the seats herself, so much less effort — he smiled. “Come on, Molly, it’s me.”

She tried not to stare at him but failed spectacularly. At least her mouth didn’t fall open.

“B-but... how did you... I didn’t recognize you!” she squeaked and put a hand over her mouth to _stop talking_.

He didn’t seem to mind.

“As I’ve been told, witnessed _and_ proved to myself, it’s infinitely better to try and hide in plain sight than work on elaborate disguise.”

“But,” she started through her fingers and then clasped her hand harder against her mouth.

He took her hand in his and slowly put it back on the table.

“That really won’t be necessary,” he said.

“But—“ she tried to clasp her other hand around her mouth but he intercepted her. “But what if I say too much?”

“No one will notice.”

“But—“

“Molly,” he said, firmly. “Everyone here minds their own business. We’re not suspicious. Calm down.”

She looked uncertain and then looked around. No one was paying attention to them, the constant chatter continued. They were just another customers, although perhaps annoyingly twitchy in her case.

“Alright,” she said. “I trust you know what you’re doing.”

“I do,” he admitted.

She couldn’t understand why she didn’t recognize him. It’s not like he had a wig or... a fake nose. There was just a different air about him, a slightly modified manner of speaking. He combed his hair the other way, did something to his eyebrows and dressed differently. And...

“Is that a make-up?” she asked, pointing at his mouth. He grimaced but nodded.

“I had to modify the shape of the lips,” he admitted.

Molly decided it was time to drop the subject. She reached into her pocket and took out a folded photograph of a man.

“You sure this time?” he asked, his interest picked. She nodded. “Because last time—“

“I know what happened last time!” She didn’t need any reminding. He glanced at her with raised eyebrows. Molly sighed. “I’m sure. I... checked it myself.”

He nodded, not questioning that, thankfully.

“So, what did you find?” he asked, calmly but with a tense edge.

She handed him the photograph.

“It was in his coat,” she said quietly.

He frowned.

“And the—“

“No family, no connections, no real job, barely a home at all.”

“You said no _real_ job...”

“Well, he certainly looked well-fed and clothed. He looked rather fine.”

“Except for the fact that he’s dead.”

“Yeah.”

They were silent for a moment when he turned the photograph in his hands. Molly practically had that face memorized.

“Do you think he’s using... connections to find this man?” she asked.

“Yes. Yes, I do think so,” he said slowly. “Do you want to know the plan?” he asked.

“Of course.”

“Then put this on,” he said and gave her a ring. A wedding ring. Matching up with the one he was putting on his finger.

“What?” she squeaked.

First that boyfriend nonsense and now this? Her life was surreal...

“Look,” he said tiredly. “It’s just a disguise. It doesn’t— It doesn’t _mean_ anything. We won’t even have to pretend we’re a couple. The rings will do that and people will leave us alone. So, what do you say?”

She gritted her teeth. As if she could refuse.

Slowly, very slowly, she slipped the ring on her finger.

 

~*~

 

Molly’s flat didn’t change and yet she could feel something was different. The air tasted like electricity and her ears seemed to ring. And all that after he said, “I know where Moran is.”

She let the silence stretch for a moment and interrupted it before it could become uncomfortable. It was enough she was in her pink pyjamas again.

“Does he know?” she asked quietly, ignoring Toby’s meowing at her feet.

His face smoothed.

“I don’t think so, no,” he said. “I would prefer if it stayed that way. He’s... he’s been through a lot already. We can do this without him.”

Molly nodded because, yes, she knew firsthand how difficult these past few months had been for everyone involved. She witnessed it often enough.

“So, what happens now?” she asked. “Do— do we set a trap or something?”

He smiled at her, despite all the tension.

“That’s exactly what we’ll do. Listen—“

Someone knocked on the door and Molly looked at him, uncertain. He seemed calm enough but had his gun already loaded.

“It _might_ be Lestrade,” he said in a low voice. “I did tell him to come.”

“He has a key,” Molly protested and then there was some banging on her poor door.

“Well, you always complain,” he said and though she appreciated his effort to make the situation lighter, she didn’t so much as smile. He was completely serious when the next banging came. “Listen, you go open that door and I will hide behind it.”

Molly didn’t like that plan but he had a point. For all they knew it could be Moran who somehow found them out. But if he wanted to kill her, he probably wouldn’t knock first. Would he?

She opened the door and a very agitated man came into her flat.

“He’s got him!” he said frantically, and Molly was instantly even more worried. “Moran’s got John!”

The realization hit her at the same time as relief.

“Sherlock—“

“He saw me. I have been careful, but he must have because John’s not in the flat and _Mycroft_ doesn’t know where he is, and—“

“Sherlock!” she said, more forcefully, and glanced at the shadow still hidden next to her door. He just stood there with his arms crossed, being no help at all, while Sherlock behaved worse than when he overdosed on nicotine.

“—and he might be dead by now and then it was all for nothing!”

Then, _finally,_ there was a cough from the corridor and the man came into view.

Sherlock didn’t react, which just showed how affected he was. He didn’t even notice him, just kept muttering to himself.

“I’m fine, thanks for your concern,” said the man and only then did Sherlock turn. And he gaped. It was quite a sight.

“John,” he breathed. “You’re not—”

“Dead? Nope. And neither are _you_.”

Molly thought there was something very much like guilt that showed on Sherlock’s face for just a fraction of a second, but she couldn’t be sure.

“No...” he said carefully.

“I was very angry with you and I’m sure I’ll be very angry later too, but for now...”

John crossed Molly’s living room and pulled Sherlock in a long, tight hug.

“Idiot,” he said and Sherlock relaxed a little bit, enough to smirk.

“How long have you known?” he asked.

“Molly told me a week after your funeral,” John said and Sherlock sent her an assessing glance. “I always knew you had a thing for theatrics, but that was a bit too much.”

“You didn’t tell _me?_ ” Sherlock asked her, still in John’s arms. Neither of them seemed particularly inclined to let go. Molly didn’t know if she should start explaining things or just leave them to it.

“I-I—“ she started.

“Leave Molly alone, she was brilliant,” John said, surprising her. She blushed.

Sherlock looked at her for quite some time and then he smiled at her — a genuine smile that she only saw when it was directed at John.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, she was.”

And Molly knew by then that her cheeks were pinker than her pyjamas.

She was about to say something — anything really — when Greg invited himself in.

“So what’s so important?” he asked, still in the corridor. “Oh, hey, Sherlock,” he said, marching by and avoiding Toby who waited for John to let go of the human and pet him instead. There was a faint “he knew too?” everyone ignored. “Did we catch Moran yet?” Greg asked and looked at John and Sherlock who were still hugging, and then at Molly with raised eyebrows.

“Sooo... what have I missed?” he asked and she giggled.

 

~*~

 

Molly couldn’t shake the feeling that they forgot about something important during their planning. They were thorough, no doubts there, but between explanations, apologies and joy of reunion, they could have easily missed something. Some minor but vital detail. A hole in their plan that could result in a real tragedy. But Molly was probably being paranoid, had always been a little bit paranoid, as her mother kept telling her. Little Miss Perfect with her perfect autopsies and relationships gone wrong-wrong-wrong because of all those little things that _could_ go wrong. Afraid of them being less than perfect, shattering over little things (and they always did, but then it was just a self-fulfilling prophecy).

Maybe that’s why she fell for Sherlock. Well, apart from the fact that he was clever, mysterious and handsome. But he was also unavailable for her and maybe she had known that from the start and some part of her decided it was safe to love that perfect image of him because he’d never get close enough for it to completely shatter.

She really shouldn’t be thinking about Sherlock — she had a post-mortem to do. But it was kind of difficult when there was so much that could go wrong with their plan.

She took a deep breath and looked down at this unfortunate bloke she was performing an autopsy on. He apparently got very drunk and fell out the window. On a twelfth floor. Or rather jumped in a makeshift carton spaceship with a mission to Mars. According to his not-so-sober friends whose involvement in the “mission” she was just trying to determine.

Molly tried really hard not to laugh but then she heard that the police found the rest of the company already sitting in another “spaceship”, fully intending to go on a rescue mission through the same window and she couldn’t help it.

She thought of that story Greg told her over birthday curry. The one about Sherlock apparently throwing some CIA agent out the window because he had hurt Mrs Hudson. No one had ever done something so nice for her.

Not that throwing people out the window was nice but that gesture coming from Sherlock...

God, she was hopeless. No wonder her family thought she was mad. No wonder there had been no assassin sent to kill her.

Not that she wanted someone to kill her, but it was an obvious choice, wasn’t it? To go with Mrs Hudson and not—

Molly’s eyes went wide and she dropped the chart. Then she started running, out of the building and then to the main street, frantically calling people, still in her lab coat and not bothering to tell anyone where she’s going. The worst they could do was fire her.

“Pick up, pick up, Pick. _Up_!” she exclaimed at her phone. There was a steady signal but never an answer, no matter which number she tried to dial and how many times. This was bad. This was _worse_ than bad. This was the gone-terribly-wrong she was afraid of.

Why couldn’t she have been paranoid earlier, when it could still make a difference?

She hailed a cab and headed for Baker Street, determined to make that difference after all.

 

~*~

 

The front door was open and the lock was broken. It was enough to confirm her suspicions but she had to be absolutely sure. Maybe there was a-a draught? A violent, powerful draught? With enough force to cause the damage? Or maybe Mrs Hudson was doing some repairs? Maybe—

Or maybe not. The door to 221A was wide open as well and she could see signs of a struggle. Some broken glass and ceramics, food dragged away with shoes, footprints...

Thankfully, there was no blood. And no body. So maybe there was still time to fix this.

They should have remembered about Mrs Hudson. It was a very stupid mistake.

Neither Sherlock nor John, nor even Greg, were answering her calls. It didn’t look good. Thankfully, she knew where to go. And this time, she had the right bag.

 

~*~

 

The flat was dark which was a good thing. Molly got rid of her lab coat because she thought she looked suspicious in it and she would have been an easy target. She had black trousers on her which was infinitely better than a white coat.

There were no cameras. At least that was the plan. Sherlock and John checked the building before setting up the trap and it was very near to a blank spot in CCTV network. No other suspicious cameras were found.

It was too quiet. The flat was not that big to begin with and she should be able to hear _something_ if they were still—

No, don’t think about it. It was not a good time to panic.

She took a deep breath and closed her hand around her taser’s handle. It seemed to quiet her nerves a little bit. She proceeded quietly through a rather long corridor towards the next room. Well, “room” was a big word. It was an abandoned flat, still not quite recovered from Moriarty’s gift explosion.

There was no one there and Molly tried very hard not to panic. She squeezed her hand tighter on the taser and kept going, her footsteps hesitant, afraid of creaking wood.

Then she heard a muffled sound from behind her and she froze. She expected a blow or something but nothing like that came. Molly turned slowly and saw a door she missed, slightly open.

She went there on tiptoes and saw them all inside, unconscious save for Mrs Hudson who was trembling on the chair she was tied to, with her mouth gagged. There was also a man who looked just like the one from that photo she showed John in the cafe. Moran.

That would explain the silence.

Molly was rather grateful that Moran was looking in another direction. She was rarely lucky like that and maybe, _maybe_ , it could work this time. She could fix it. She only needed to—

“Don’t be stupid,” Moran said and for one terrifying moment she thought he discovered her. She froze, sure now that she was going to die. He wasn’t looking at her but that meant nothing. “I can see you moving. Do you really think you could untie this knot?”

“I was in the army too, you know,” came the reluctant answer and Molly could breathe again. John stirred and sat up blocking Moran’s — and Molly’s — view of Sherlock and Greg.

Moran snorted.

“That’s not going to work either. I see them moving behind you, I’m not an idiot,” he said.

“That’s debateable,” Sherlock muttered and Moran frowned.

“Stop what you’re doing or I’ll shoot the old lady.”

Mrs Hudson let out a muffled sob.

“You’ll do that either way so why should we listen to you?” asked Sherlock, clearly annoyed.

“You didn’t seem to think that way before. To be honest, I wasn’t expecting that level of collaboration.

Sherlock groaned.

“If you intend to bore us with pointless conversation, I certainly regret not being dead yet,” he said and Molly gasped. What was he even trying to do?

She saw Moran turn and get up, then he came closer to the men he captured.

Molly’s heart started beating furiously — even faster and _louder_ than it already had been doing and she used that moment to point the taser at Moran. No one seemed to notice the red dot of the laser, maybe because her hand shook horribly and she couldn’t be sure her shot would actually achieve something. Damn it! She withdrew hastily and glued herself to the wall for a couple of seconds it took her to regain her breath. Then she carefully peered into the room again. And frowned.

Moran was separating the men from each other and Molly thought it was an unfortunately smart move on his part. It really didn’t look good.

“No more tricks,” Moran said. “Now that everyone is _comfortable_ , I can finish the show and kill you one by one for Holmes to see. I’m tired of this business.”

“And yet, you still _talk_ ,” Sherlock said. He sounded casual and bored but Molly thought there was that panicky edge to his voice again.

He didn’t have a plan.

Then Moran started walking towards her and she started trembling. But he only just stood by the door to have a better view. He was really close to her now and Molly needed to stop that stupid tremble and _do something_.

“How does it feel, Holmes?” Moran asked. “You already died for them once. How does it feel to know they’ll die anyway? Maybe I should let you live after all,” he said and made another step backwards. “Watch you live without the only three people that can stand you, knowing you couldn’t save them.”

He started raising the gun at Mrs Hudson whose eyes Molly couldn’t see but knew were full of tears. Well, that was it. She couldn’t let it happen. She took a deep breath and put the taser directly to Moran’s back. He only had time to look at her with surprise before she released the charges and then struck him on the head with the taser’s handle so he dropped to the floor, unconscious.

Her ears were ringing and she thought she heard a gunshot so maybe she would die there after all.

“Th—“ Molly started through gritted teeth, determined to say what she needed to say. “That’s _four_ ,” she said and her legs gave out.

She— she might be dying but she needed to— It wasn’t over. She had to help— She—

“Molly,” she heard a gentle voice and something told her it wasn’t the first time he called her. And it was close. Too close really, and—

“I—“

She tried to say something but wasn’t sure what. There was a metal click and Moran’s hands were somehow handcuffed. Other hands, gentle hands, lifted her and then pulled her into a hug. Which was a good thing, really, because otherwise she’d fall again. The arms around Molly grounded her a bit and she looked up at Greg. There was an odd expression there she had never seen before. Not directed at her anyway.

“How...?” she tried again but he stopped her.

“Sssh,” he said, helping her sit on the floor, with her back against the wall. Then he sat close to her, with his arm still around her. “We’ll get you out of here. We’ll— God, Molly, you saved us all. _Again_.”

She laughed nervously but still didn’t quite understand. She wasn’t— Her plans never really— Did it _actually_ work?

She must have said at least that last bit out loud because he smiled at her and said: “Oh, yes, it did. And you were bloody amazing!”

She looked around the room. She had already figured out she wasn’t dying after all but there had been a gunshot. No one appeared hurt though. Mrs Hudson had been released and sobbed quietly, still in the chair, while John was helping Sherlock with his tied wrists. The moment he was free again, Sherlock gripped the gun and pointed it at Moran. Molly flinched.

“Sherlock,” came the calm but firm voice. “Put the gun down.”

“He wanted to kill you,” Sherlock said and Molly had a feeling he revisited whatever had happened on the roof of St. Bart’s.

“He was not the first and he won’t be the last,” John insisted. “He’s unconscious, handcuffed and unarmed. There’s really nothing he can do anymore.”

Greg tightened the grip on her arm. She looked at him and found resigned determination. He thought Sherlock would shoot. But he didn’t. He looked defeated when he handed the gun to John but he didn’t.

He took care of Mrs Hudson instead and John searched the still unconscious Moran.

“I have to call for backup,” Greg murmured and Molly nodded numbly. She wasn’t going anywhere anyway. Not with how her legs were shaking and how her head was spinning and—

“You said four,” she heard from beside her. It was Sherlock, sitting right next to her and looking at her with... confusion? respect? concern? irritation? She wouldn’t know. “After you...” He cleared his throat. “You said four.”

“Well, y-you told him. To shut up,” she said, trying for a light tone and failing. She wasn’t supposed to be this affected. Was she?

Sherlock nodded, acknowledging her effort.

“And you said four,” he insisted.

“You’re welcome,” she said, recognizing it for what it was and not expecting more.

The corners of his mouth twitched.

“Although your plan wasn’t really that good. It was pure luck you managed to make him unconscious and that gun could have killed someone. If you made a noise instead, so that he had to go out and check...”

He continued talking about better alternatives and kept pointing flaws in her impromptu plan, but Molly found herself smiling. All back to normal then.

 

~*~

 

Greg took Molly home. She refused to stay in the hospital. After all, she was just in shock and wasn’t about to go crazy as they seemed to think. She was more likely to lose her mind in the sterile, insipid environment than in her own flat anyway. She dated a master criminal. She could handle this.

Mostly.

Greg was injured. Thankfully, it wasn’t anything serious — some bruised ribs and scratches from where the rope held his wrists together — but still. He didn’t want to stay in the hospital either and scoffed at her when she tried to protest.

“I’m fine, Molly,” he told her. “We’re all fine.”

But that was the scary part of the story. It would seem that Moran really did intend to finish the job quickly and she arrived just in time to prevent it. She refused to think about what would have happened if she got there an hour later. Or not at all.

So Moran was probably as tired of this game as he claimed. Or maybe he was afraid that Sherlock would figure something out if he gave him enough time to think. And he probably underestimated Sherlock’s ability to care as well. He nearly killed Moran as it was and if he had nothing to lose...

Molly shuddered. She wouldn’t think about that. It all ended well and she’d see them all the next day, laughing and talking and _breathing_ , and hopefully murder wouldn’t be high on their to-do lists.

They arrived at her flat and Molly curled up on the sofa. She knew she wouldn’t sleep that day and she preferred to be in a common area, no matter how abandoned it was, than in her closed bedroom. She’d fetch the laptop any minute now and then—

There was a blanket placed on her and a steaming mug of tea put down on the coffee table in front of her. She blinked up at Greg, surprised to still see him there.

(She was glad though. So very glad...)

“Thank you,” she said, sitting up and wrapping herself in a blanket cocoon. Greg sat beside her with his own mug.

“It’s nothing,” he said, looking at her intently. “The least I can do for someone who saved my life. _Twice_.”

“N-no, I...” she tried to protest but words were not coming to her. Molly’s mind was positively blank. “I just—”

Greg nodded and they drank their tea in silence, for which she was grateful. If they discussed this, she’d cry. She knew she would. And it was stupid. She _could_ handle this.

She felt a lot better when she drank her tea. It helped her find her voice.

“Aren’t you going to go home yet? It’s late.”

Greg shrugged.

“Only if you want me to. And by want, I don’t mean tell me to. I’m a detective, I can sense a lie, you know.”

“No, you can’t.”

“Wanna try me?” Greg asked and smiled at her. She found herself smiling back.

“But what about your wife?” she asked quietly. “She’d want to know you’re alright.”

“I’m divorced,” Greg said, bemused. “I told you that.”

“No,” Molly said and gripped the mug more tightly. “No. You told _my mother_ to get rid of her and tell me about the investigation.” She refused to look at him and when Toby jumped onto her lap, she absently scratched him behind the ears. “Now she thinks we’re together and I—“

There was a long silence after that and it grew heavier with every second.

“Molly,” Greg said gently and took her hand. Toby hissed at him. Molly still refused to take her eyes off the coffee table. “I _am_ divorced. Been for some time now actually.”

“Oh,” Molly said helplessly. “I-I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have— I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright,” he said. “It was bound to happen sooner or later.”

He didn’t let go of her hand and she thought she could finally stop trembling.

 

~*~

 

When she got home from work, her flat was eerily quiet. She felt panic building up in her stomach as she smelled blood in the air, a nauseating smell that shouldn’t be that intense. Shouldn’t be there at all.

She stepped into her living room and gasped. There were bodies on her empty, raw floor, dismembered as the dolls kids at school used to leave in her rucksack. Only now there was a pool of blood on the floor and she knew the dolls— the _people_.

She fell to her knees and there was a cold electric laugh as her pink pyjamas slowly turned red...

She woke up with her heart beating furiously in her ears. It was just a dream. Just... just a nightmare. They were definitely not dead and Molly’s pyjamas stayed safely pink.

After the drumming in her ears stopped and her heartbeat went back to normal, Molly heard voices in her living room, coming through the slightly open door and she got up, confused.

“...this ridiculous... thing,” she heard when she got closer to the door.

“It’s a cat, Sherlock,” came an exasperated voice. “He’s not going to... plot your destruction.”

Molly opened the door and, sure enough, there was John Watson sitting on her sofa and scratching Tony behind the ears and under his chin to the cat’s great delight. Sherlock sat beside them, looking sceptical.

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” another voice came and there was Greg Lestrade coming out of the kitchen with a tray of steaming mugs. Molly’s nose caught the delightful smell of coffee. “That cat can certainly hold a grudge.”

“I think he’s lovely,” Molly was surprised to hear another voice coming from the direction of the kitchen and belonging to Mrs Hudson who carried biscuits and toasts. “Oh, good morning, Molly dear,” Mrs Hudson said and suddenly everyone’s attention was focused on her. Molly pursed her lips, refusing to feel self-conscious. “I hope you slept well.”

“No, she had a nightmare,” Sherlock said and John kicked him not-so-discreetly. “What? It’s _obvious_.”

“Are you alright?” Greg asked from closer than she expected. He sounded concerned.

“I’m fine,” Molly said, trying not to think about blood.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes on her.

“Interesting,” he said, which told her absolutely nothing.

“There’s coffee for you, if you want,” John said, still playing with Toby and sending Sherlock warning glances at the same time.

“You should really eat something,” Mrs Hudson added. “You do look very pale. Doesn’t she, Inspector?”

“Yes,” Greg said, still looking at her with concern. “Yes, she does.

“I’m _fine_ ,” she insisted because they were being ridiculous and she was still confused. “Let me get changed and I’ll... I’ll be back in a minute.”

She really needed to get rid of that pyjamas.

When she emerged back from her bedroom, Mrs Hudson was petting her cat, John tried to make Sherlock let go of her laptop — no point in that, she gave up ages ago — and Greg grinned at her and came to place a mug of coffee in her hands.

“Milk, one sugar,” he said and Molly felt warmth spreading through her veins that had nothing to do with the coffee.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I seem to have a thing for writing weird fanfiction now. Well...  
> I hope it's clear who visited Molly when, but I might be too deep into the story to tell.
> 
> [Chopin's Nocturne No. 20 in C sharp minor](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T5ZdlI4cOwo). 
> 
> Also, about that mission to Mars... It's an urban legend here in Poland. Basically - students. Drunk students. And space expeditions.


End file.
